


An Old Dog

by lynnmonster



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-12-21
Updated: 2003-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-25 01:19:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1623929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynnmonster/pseuds/lynnmonster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for bantha fodder</p>
    </blockquote>





	An Old Dog

**Author's Note:**

> Written for bantha fodder

 

 

All across the soccer-ball-shaped surface of the universe, up and over the length and breadth of space, it is a constant truth that a fundraiser just isn't a fundraiser without three things: false smiles, canapes, and rich people. Just because the Discworld was carried through space on the back of a really big turtle didn't mean that the Disc was exempt from that law. Which was unfortunate for Sam Vimes, because false smiles he could ignore, and canapes he could eat, but... 

Sam Vimes _hated_ rich people. 

The fact that Sir Samuel Vimes _was_ "rich people" these days was completely incidental and utterly beside the point. He didn't hate himself (not very often, anyways) and he certainly didn't hate his wife (even though his despised title had come with her hand). He might be willing to try hating her, though, since it was solely for her benefit that he was dressed up in his ducal chapeau and the attendant frilly and uncomfortable clothes presumably meant to be loud and silly enough to distract from the hat's otherwise unbearable sartorial impact. 

Vimes stuck his finger between his neck and the beflounced high collar that was doing its best impression of a garrote, and attempted to stretch a the cloth a little. 

"Samuel, darling," Lady Sybil Vimes ( _nee_ Ramkin) gently chided him, under the guise of getting his attention. 

"Yes, dear?" he inquired, taking her hand and looping it through the crook of his arm. 

"You remember the Portisons, from their last visit to the preserve. Lydia here has just donated the cost of fireproofing the stalls. Isn't that wonderful?" 

"Madam," Vimes grimaced, trying to approximate a smile. Now was the time he was supposed to kiss up for all dragonkind. "Your generosity threatens to outshine your beauty," he eventually managed, taking Lydia's pudgy gloved hand in his and bowing over it. Never let it be said that Sam Vimes couldn't learn a new trick or two. 

Lydia tittered aristocratically, and her husband chuckled patronizingly, giving Vimes a tooth-rattling slap on the back. "Those little bags of gas need all the help they can get, eh, Vimesy?" Sam regarded the man and made some agreeable noises, but his attention was caught by the couple's resemblance to the very bags of gas they were helping to save. Pampered, delicate, not terribly bright or attractive, filled with more vitriol and hot air than one being should be able to encompass. Both unable to so much as feed themselves properly, requiring a trained staff to prepare and present the food appealingly. 

What a difference between the general aristocracy and gems of competence like his wife and Lord Vetinari. It was like the difference between the bumbling swamp dragons on the preserve and that dragon that looked to give Vetinari a run for his money not so long ago. Even Vimes had to admit breeding definitely made a real difference, there. 

Funny that with dragons, it was the _weak_ ones who were lovable. 

With a few more hearty words, he disengaged from the Portisons and escorted his wife over to the next clutch of potential donors. Unexpectedly, the Patrician himself was a part of the group. Sam caught himself, surprised at his own surprise. It was a major event, after all, and Vetinari was as sinisterly correct in his social obligations as his outwardly political ones. 

Vimes suddenly wasn't quite sure how to act. He knew his function tonight was mainly to be Sybil's escort and co-fundraiser, but having Vetinari here might indicate something different. He gave a mental sigh. Dealing with Lord Vetinari was much like reading hieroglyphics. In the dark. Without a candle. 

The man was impenetrable. However, even when his needs required Vimes to dress in his official frippery . . . well, whenever he was sent out on Vetinari's orders, unlike at this event, he was never expected to behave as anyone other than himself. Vimes was a copper, after all, and although it had taken him a while, he'd finally realized that Vetinari had never thought to mold him indo a mindless aristocrat. No, if Vetinari arranged for him to appear in a diplomatic situation, Sam suspected that being his normal, irascible self was _exactly_ what would be required of him. 

"Havelock!" Sybil greeted the Patrician warmly. "How lovely of you to come. Are you a fellow dragon-lover?" she inquired, genuinely curious. 

If Sam hadn't been dealing with the man for so many years now, he would have missed the tiny twitch of shoulder blades completely. "Alas, dear Sybil," Vetinari explained, his voice expertly shaded with just a tinge of regret, "I find that Wuffles takes all the attention I have to give. I'm afraid all of my interests are canine at the moment." 

Vimes wasn't surprised that Vetinari had no fondness for dragons, considering that he'd almost been replaced by one. Of course, Sybil's hapless charges were an entirely different breed (with, perhaps, a notable exception or two). Vetinari's admitted fondness for his raggedy little dog, though . . . that was a constant source of surprise to Sam. Such a practical, unfeeling, calculating man, with a mind like one of the cunning artificers' machines, and he openly displays genuine affection for an aging, almost toothless mutt. 

Vimes snorted to himself. He should know people better by now, especially after living in a city like Ankh-Morpork for his entire life. They may be greedy, they may be cruel, they were often selfish and stupid, but people -- even people like the Patrician, apparently -- people always needed someone or something to love. 

He looked over at Sybil, who had loved her hopeless dragons long before she'd met him and decided she loved him, too. He thought about Constable Carrot, who almost certainly loved Angua but loved his principles at least as much. ("Personal isn't the same as important." Now there was a thought that was scary on the level of Vetinari at his most ruthless.) 

And Vetinari himself. Sam thought about the man chatting so urbanely with his wife. He'd seen Vetinari in a cell, in what looked like a desperate situation, and he'd still been Vetinari the frighteningly smart, Vetinari the anything-but-vulnerable. Affection for a scruffy-looking mutt aside, was the ruler of their city _ever_ less than self-contained and self-sufficient? 

Thinking about Vetinari being vulnerable left him very unsettled. 

His wife's tinkling laughter interrupted his musings, and prompted him to beg the small group's pardon. Vimes shook the disturbed feeling off and went to the bar to get himself another soda water. What he really wanted was a stinky cigar and flaskful of whiskey, but he didn't even drink beer these days. Being reformed wasn't all it was cracked up to be. 

He waited for his drink and regarded the sagging banner hanging over the mirrored back wall. "Here Be Dragonnes" it proclaimed proudly, with little cartoon beasties puffing smoke rings painted around the edges. 

He looked scornfully at the sloppy hanging job. Some of the values drilled into him by his painfully respectable upbringing reared their stiffly carried heads at the oddest times. His mother would never have stood for sagging banners. She was too house-proud for that. Vetinari, of all the people here, might be the only one to understand. It was whispered that he had attended the assassin's guild as a _scholarship_ student, which bespoke poverty as well as a frightening aptitude for cold-bloodedness. 

"Look at the watchman, all dressed up!" he overheard one socialite titter to another from somewhere behind him. Did they not realize that this was his wife's charity that this lavish event was being held for, and that it was only reasonable to expect that he'd be there to support her? Morons. 

"Ooooh, better watch yourself! It's Vetinari's terrier," another one stage-whispered. Vimes had certainly heard that nickname before -- he supposed he should be grateful that people didn't just call him "Wuffles" and be done with it. It was an accurate enough comparison, really, particularly if one looked at their temperaments and overall physical appearance. They were both almost universally regarded as unlovable, with the surprising but obvious exceptions: Wuffles had the affection of one of the most powerful men on the Disc, and Vimes had stumbled his way into the heart of one of its greatest ladies. They were both aging, tenacious, grizzly characters, and at this late stage in their lives their bark was probably much worse than their bite. 

And Vetinari's was the only master's voice either one would obey. 

Funny, that. Mostly people followed Sam's orders, not the other way around. Especially these days, with the Commandership and the knighthood and the Dukedom. He felt a pang of sympathy for the ruler whose only apparent friend was his aging dog. Sam Vimes wasn't embarrassed by a wealth of friends, either. He was too outspoken and inconvenient for any of his wife's peers to accept him. Bless her heart, Lady Sybil _was_ a good friend to him. She was practical and loving and for some reason she thought he was something to be proud of. And one might assume that Vimes would have plenty of friends among the men of the Watch. The women, too. And trolls, of course, and dwarves. And werewolves and undead and gargoyles and golems. Well. That variety was part of the problem right there. He might not have all that much in common aside from the Watch itself with many of them, but his "men" were a good lot. However, Sam was their commander, and separated by rank from all of them. There was only so much familiarity possible. 

How much worse, then, would it be to have no equals at all? 

It was obvious that Vetinari's secretary, Drumknott, was genuinely fond of him, if in too much awe. And his ever-present guest, Leonard of Quirm, was happily ensconced high in one of the Palace's towers. Leonard would never be allowed to leave, though, and thank goodness for that. But he was in effect Vetinari's prisoner, if an oblivious one, which couldn't make for an entirely comfortable camaraderie. 

The bartender finally returned with his drink, and a modest glass of champagne he'd ordered for Sybil. He returned to the cluster around his wife and his ruler, for a moment unable to distinguish any difference between himself and the social moths fluttering around their bright lights. But then Sybil turned and took her glass from him with a grateful smile, and Vetinari called him over with a motion of his hand. 

Vimes pecked his wife on the cheek and followed Vetinari to a quiet corner. "Commander Vimes," he began, letting Sam know with an economy of words that he needed the Watchman and not the diplomat in this particular case. "I wonder if you've heard the newest from the Beggar's Guild..." and he was off, giving Sam the scent and pointing him in the direction of his newest quarry. 

If Sam had never heard him talking to Wuffles, he never would have recognized the warmth in the dry and pointed tone. Shocked, he searched Vetinari's face for any change, but it was the same impassive facade as always. 

He sat down abruptly in a nearby chair once Vetinari finished speaking and glided off. "He looked the same as always," he thought wonderingly, and pictured himself thumping an imaginary tail. 

Vetinari's terrier. There were worse things to be. 

 


End file.
